by Nicole Fox
Andrei
A Dark Mafia Romance (Bakhtin Bratva)
Nicole Fox
Copyright © 2019 by Nicole Fox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Also by Nicole Fox
Kornilov Bratva Duet
Married to the Don
Til Death Do Us Part
Heirs to the Bratva Empire
*Can be read in any order
Kostya
Maksim
Andrei
Tsezar Bratva
Nightfall (Book 1)
Daybreak (Book 2)
Russian Crime Brotherhood
*Can be read in any order
Owned by the Mob Boss
Unprotected with the Mob Boss
Knocked Up by the Mob Boss
Sold to the Mob Boss
Stolen by the Mob Boss
Trapped with the Mob Boss
Volkov Bratva
Broken Vows (Book 1)
Broken Hope (Book 2)
Other Standalones
Vin: A Mafia Romance
Contents
Andrei
1. Jamie
2. Andrei
3. Jamie
4. Andrei
5. Jamie
6. Andrei
7. Jamie
8. Andrei
9. Jamie
10. Andrei
11. Jamie
12. Andrei
13. Jamie
14. Andrei
15. Jamie
16. Andrei
17. Jamie
18. Andrei
19. Jamie
20. Andrei
21. Jamie
22. Jamie
23. Andrei
24. Jamie
25. Andrei
26. Jamie
Epilogue I
Epilogue II
Married to the Don (Kornilov Bratva Book One)
Also by Nicole Fox
Mailing List
Andrei
She thinks she owns me. She’s never been more wrong.
My second-in-command sold me out.
Stabbed me in the back.
Betrayed me to our sworn enemies.
Now, I’m the prisoner of the Irish mob.
Their don wants to beat me down.
But his daughter would rather tie me up.
Jamie buys me off the auction stage to star in her pet photography project.
“The Beast,” she calls me. A fitting title.
But little does the beauty know…
This beast cannot be caged.
“What exactly are you going to do?” she asks.
Dark intensity creeps into my eyes. “Anything I want.”
ANDREI is a full-length, standalone mafia enemies-to-lovers romance.
1
Jamie
I’ve worked like crazy for the past three months to get this exhibition ready, spending more hours than I care to think about either out in the city taking photos or in my studio, editing, tinkering.
The show is called “Companions” and it’s a series of photos of homeless people with their pets: a few dogs, a ferret, a homeless man who spends all his begging money on an elaborate hamster cage he keeps in the back of a takeout place—with the permission of the owner—so it doesn’t get too cold.
Now, I’m walking around The Clover. That’s the name of the art gallery Father allowed me to open last year because I said he could use it as an office, too. That’s how things work in my family. I’m the Irish princess of the O’Gallagher Family—capital F. I don’t like calling it a crime family, but I’m not naïve either. The title is a strictly ceremonial role. I’m not involved in the running of the day-to-day. But it does mean I have to make certain concessions: like ignoring the men entering and exiting the door that leads up to Father’s office all night.
My mind wanders as I tend to the thousand little things that need to be done as the event swirls on around me. I adjust the music, make sure there’s enough to snack on, get more champagne brought out when I see it’s running low.
I try not to look at the photos, even if they’re quite beautiful in my own humble opinion, because I know I’ll see a million things I want to change and it’s too late for that. I’m just heading to dim the lights a notch more when my best friend, Molly—who is doubling as the event planner responsible for putting tonight together—intercepts me.
Molly is looking consummately professional, a good counterweight to my frizzy artist look. Pencil skirt, tied-back hair, high heels she balances on brilliantly.
“What are you doing?” she asks, smiling perceptively. “Because I gotta say, Jamie, it looks like you’re about to mess with the light for the fifth—yes, the fifth—time. Soon, people are gonna start thinking there’s a problem with the power grid.”
I commandeer a glass of champagne from the table where they’re all laid out. “You’re dead wrong. I was just coming to tell you what a great job you’ve done. And it hasn’t been five times!”
“Has too,” she giggles. “I’ve counted. And if I’ve really done a great job, why are you running around like a chicken with its head cut off?”
I sip my champagne, trying to think of an answer other than the truth. Because I’m nervous as hell. Because displaying your art is like pulling your rib cage open and screaming, “Here, world, come take a look! A real close look!”
Molly, as always, can pretty much read me like a book. She wraps her arm around my shoulder and forces me to turn to the room, to observe the people studying my photographs. “Open your eyes, Jamie. People love it. Look.”
For the first time tonight, I really do look. And she’s right, I realize. People are nodding as though my photos are illuminating some important life fact for them, or outright smiling in appreciation, or having mini-debates about what a certain photograph signifies.
“Okay.” I let out a breath. “So maybe I went a bit over-the-top.”
“Just a little bit,” Molly assures me, though we both know I crossed the line hours ago, right around the time when I interrogated the catering staff about the thickness of the champagne glasses.
“Does that mean I have to talk to people? Oh God, you’re going to tell me to talk to people, aren’t you?”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Such a smarty-pants. Anyway, what’s wrong with that? You’re a sociable person.”
“Not when it comes to—”
“Talking about your photography, I know. But this is part of the job. Now, scram.” She swats me playfully on the ass and redirects me towards the nearest throng of people.
I’m reluctant at first, but soon I get into the swing of it. People mostly just ask questions, so I don’t have to think of any topics of conversation myself, and I even get into a nice editing debate with a photography student.
Then I turn and find Declan Walsh watching me. I feel a stab of anger, like I do every time I see him. Declan Walsh is Rafferty Walsh’s son, and Rafferty Walsh is my father’s main lieutenant, his sort-of vice president. So, basically, we’re dealing with an entitled douche.
Declan has his hands in his pockets as he swaggers over. He’s a red-headed man a couple
of inches shorter than me with a nasty look in his eyes. “Nice pictures,” he says, smirking as though to imply the exact opposite. “Don’t really get it, though, why these folks would spend their time and money on animals. Surely they should be getting jobs? Making something of themselves?”
I know Declan well enough to guess what he’s doing: trying to get me heated. I finish my champagne. “To each their own,” I say, wanting to be anywhere but here.
“Like this son of a bitch with the parrot. Parrot Pete.” He leans close, reading the title of the piece. “Is his real name Pete, or is that just like—artistic license?”
“Pete is the name he goes by on the street,” I explain, knowing it’s useless.
“On the street,” he sniggers. “Look at you, princess. What do you know about the street?”
I don’t think of myself as super-violent by nature, despite my family’s somewhat checkered past, but it takes a lot of self-control not to jab my champagne flute into his throat. “He lives on the street and that’s the name he goes by. Can I help you with something, Declan?”
He turns in a slow circle, appraising the work in an exaggeratedly unimpressed way. Letting out a whistle, he turns back to me. “Just don’t see what sort of future is in this. Photography. Anyone can take a photo on their phone, the last time I checked.”
“Well, like I said, to each their own. Everybody has their own tastes.”
He licks his lips, and then—as my champagne flute comes dangerously close to meeting this asshole’s throat right now—he winks at me. “I can think of a couple’a things I’d like to taste right now.”
“Unless it’s my fist in your face, I suggest you shut the hell up.”
But, predictably, this is exactly what Declan wants. He smiles broadly as though I’ve just proved who I really am, as though to say, You can try all you want to be a la-de-da artist, but you’re in the Family, just like me. He’s always trying to make it seem like he’s better than me.
“I wonder how your lovely patrons would feel if they knew what a temper you had.”
He looks so proud of himself for using the word ‘patrons.’ It’s a ten-dollar word from a ten-cent dickhead. Whoop-dee-freaking-doo. But instead of going with any of the dozen insults I have cued up to throw in his face, I just push past him and continue circulating the room. I shouldn’t let him get to me. He’s just a jerk. No, worse than that, he’s a worm, an insect. A microscopic bacterium writhing pointlessly in his vapid fucking existence.
Okay, breathe, Jamie. Calm down.
I find myself at the edge of the room, where a man I don’t recognize is standing with his hands behind his back, studying the paintings. But, Jesus, calling him just a man is sort of weird, sort of wrong.
Because, truth be told, he’s more like a beast.
I’ve never seen such a big man carry himself so well. He must be at least six foot five and broad. His muscles are straining at his sleek black suit. Yet his face is handsome, intelligent-looking.
He sees me watching him. I expect him to smile, or for a look of acknowledgment to flash into his dark eyes, but instead he just turns silently back to the piece. He looks intense, serious, captivating. He looks like everything I secretly want in the dead of night, but I’d never let myself admit in the light of day.
Repeat, Earth to Jamie: Calm. Down. Don’t get your panties in a twist over some smooth-looking criminal.
I must be annoyed at the way he blanked me. Call me pretentious, fine, but at least a flicker of recognition for the artist, please? Or maybe I’m just giving myself an excuse to walk over there.
The photo is called Rottweiler and Chihuahua.
“Getting a good look?” I ask, by way of an opener.
He half turns to me, but doesn’t look down, so he’s looking a good foot above my head. I’m on the petite side, with the glasses and messily-bunned brown hair to complete my mousy artist’s look, but I’ve never felt smaller than I do standing next to this man. It’s not just his physical size, but something else too. An aura? A presence? I’ve never been a woo-woo, herbs-and-chakras, sage-the-house kind of girl, but the man just projects himself in a way I didn’t know was possible. It’s disconcerting, and also, more than a little bit hot. But I don’t let it show on my face—or anywhere else, for that matter.
“Yes,” he says, and then turns back to the photo.
His accent is Eastern European—Russian-ish, maybe. A confused thrill runs down my spine. He must be here to meet with Father, which makes him a member of the Bratva, most likely. Which means, as the Irish princess, I should just GTFO real quick. But instead, I ask a follow-up question.
“So, what do you think this one means?”
That earns a small smile. This time, he looks down at me. “I think it means this Rottweiler gentleman has found a small degree of happiness in his wretched life. Why are you so interested, prekrasnyy?”
“What does that mean?” I blurt.
His eyes glint, and then he shrugs. He’s so in control, not trying to prove anything, not trying to one-up me. Does he even know who I am? I need to test the waters.
“Apparently, it took the artist a long time to take all the photos, you know,” I say.
“Jamie O’Gallagher,” the man says, nodding slowly. “I assume she had a personal chauffeur driving her to and from each location, with a company of trained assassins to protect her at all times.”
Is he fucking with me? His eyes have that knowing glint in them, sexy as hell. But otherwise, his poker face is impressive.
“I’m sure she enjoyed the idea of slumming it, but the reality?” He shakes his head sadly. “Not for the likes of her.”
“Or maybe she actually wanted to experience the real thing for her art. Maybe she spent three goddamn months trawling the streets and getting to know the people of the city. Maybe she’s not the princess everyone seems to think she is.”
Finally, he turns to me. Our bodies are closer than I realized, and now I’m staring right at his chest. I have to crane my neck right up to be able to look into his face. Even on my tiptoes, I wonder if I could reach his lips … not that I care.
He says something in Russian.
“You know I only speak English, right?”
“I said: It’s nice to meet you, Jamie O’Gallagher.”
I flush at his penetrating gaze. I will myself to back off, double-time, since one of the Family’s hard-and-fast rules is that the Irish and the Russians can never, ever get close in anyway. “I wish I could say the same, Mr. …”
I leave the space open for his name, but he just goes on watching me. “Is there a name for this type of photography?” he asks.
I can’t help but smile. “Why do you care?”
“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily. “I just wanted to see you smile.”
His accent is Russian-tinged, but not full-on Russian, and there’s a husky quality to it I like.
“It’s called portrait, jackass.”
He chuckles, a deep, rumbling noise that I find both endearing and a little scary, like, I wouldn’t want this man shouting at me. “You are a brave girl, Jamie O’Gallagher. Not many people talk to me like that.”
And then the penny drops. Duh. “You’re Andrei Bakhtin,” I say as all the pieces click together.
Andrei Bakhtin. Leader of the Bakhtin Bratva. Uneasy ally of my father. With a reputation for violence and ruling with an iron fist. A domineering, frightening man. So why does he look so sexy when he smiles?
He just keeps staring.
“You know, it’s polite to talk when someone says something to you. It’s called a conversation.”
“I find it better only to speak when I have something to say,” he mutters. “Let me ask you, printsessa: is it your father’s habit to keep a man waiting?”
Printsessa. Okay, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that that means princess. Funnily enough, it doesn’t annoy me the way it does when Declan calls me it. Maybe it’s the husky Russian accent.
>
“I don’t know anything about Father’s business,” I say in my practiced way. It’s almost true, anyway. Apart from what I glean from the guards every once in a while, and the events Father makes me attend to keep up appearances, I steer clear of Family life.
“It seems his business, this evening, is to anger me,” Andrei mutters.
“But you don’t sound angry,” I note.
“Never give a man what he wants,” he replies. “Always keep them on their toes.”
But what about a woman? I shudder. Not that I mind the idea of Andrei keeping me on my toes … God, what has gotten into me? I’m blaming the champagne.
“You know, you’d make a really good character study,” I joke.
“Is that so?” he asks with an air of indulgence. But it’s not belittling in the least. This man really knows how to carry himself.
“I’d call it The Beast,” I tease.
“The Beast?” he laughs. “There are some men who would find that offensive. Perhaps I’m one of those men.” He takes a step forward. We’re almost touching now. He smells like cologne and full-on man. I swear, I can feel the heat of him through his shirt. “Or perhaps I recognize the truth in it. Because I am a beast. I take what I want. I devour. I fight.”